Imaginary Friend
by Fantastic Pants
Summary: The gun digs into his forehead, cool and steady. There's something almost friendly about it. [ClaudeBennet]


_Imaginary Friend_

He's on his knees; not quite his comfort zone, but it's practical for the matter at hand.

The gun digs into his forehead, cool and steady. There's something almost friendly about it.

He can hear his speeding heartbeat - a distant thunder in his ears, a reminder of a physical existence that has almost slipped his mind. He draws a wavering breath, careful not to upset the delicate balance of metal against skin.

"Is this the end?"

Claude holds his gaze for a long while, expression blank, until a toothy grin surfaces.

"Barely the beginning, mate."

* * *

He can't breathe. 

Can't move.

_God. _

Claude looks down on him, raising an eyebrow in faint concern.

"Somethin' wrong?"

He can't find the oxygen to form words. Not that they'd do him any good.

There's a violent clawing inside his chest, wrapping his lungs in a dark, oily mass. His eyes begin to sting and water, but his vision remains impeccable. He doesn't _want_ to look, yet he can't tear his gaze away, trapped in a hypnotic trance - an invisible mousetrap.

"You-" he finally manages to grit out. "You're dead."

His partner's - _former_ partner's - face twists, showcasing a dark, crooked grin.

"And whose fault is that?"

He swallows; feels a bitterness go down his throat, burning and tearing, like a blunt knife slicing through old scar tissue - ripping it open _slowly_, inch by inch.

Making sure he _feels_ every second of it.

"I _had_ to do it. You left me no choice."

And the more he says it, the less he believes it.

Self-deception is easier without witnesses.

Nearly impossible when faced with the accusing party.

Claude leans closer, the shadows playing a distorted, unhealthy dance on his pale face. He smells of stale, decayed ground. Of gunpowder and blood. But the worst part is –

He still smells of himself.

"How could I forget?" the ironic edge is sharp and cruel, sliding under his skin with torturous – _surgical _- precision. "Always going by the book. Always doing what you're told. Regular boy scout, you are."

Claude's hand settles on the inside of his thigh, and he gives a violent shiver at the contact; so goddamn _cold_ - fingertips pressing in hard - claiming him.

He struggles to inhale as Claude's gaze locks with his - an icy, impossibly transparent blue - and his insides clench, _painfully_.

"Don't feel too bad. You were just acting in the Company's best interests," his voice is laced with elusive scorn and mock comfort, designed to sting. "Who could blame you?"

Dirty nails drag along his skin as Claude slides his hand upwards, coaxing a desperate groan from him. A thumb presses against his lower lip as Claude comes to face with him.

"You're such a _good_ little doggy, Bennet."

They're close, _too_ close, and his gaze inadvertently slips down to Claude's bare chest.

The unhealed bullet wounds glare at him, a messy exhibition of guilt and dried blood.

He closes his eyes – wishes he could _nail_ them shut - choking back a sob.

He keeps them closed as Claude moves down to his neck - are ghosts _supposed_ to breathe? – flinches as he starts moving his hand against his skin, teasing at first, then growing harsh, and it's phantom pain mixed with phantom pleasure, acute and numbing -

And, _God _– there's a part of him that still _longs_ for that touch.

He has nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Claude knows him inside out. Knows all the weak points, all the dents and cracks, all the buttons to push. And he's completely defenseless.

Claude's just toying with him now, pulling and pressing, every motion burning into and through him, dragging him closer to oblivion.

This is wrong, _sick_, shouldn't --_ can't_ be happening, and it's getting warmer, darker, feels like he's drowning, and he needs to put a stop to it – _now _– before…

"No - _please_," the plea dies out in his throat as Claude's tongue pushes against his lips, ruthless and demanding. He's at the edge, soon to be tossed into the abyss, with no one there to catch him.

This can't go on any longer. He can't _let_ it.

He opens his eyes, puts resolve into his voice - it's not much, but enough to form a broken hiss.

"_That's enough._"

And Claude stops. No argument.

Just a grin that could be playful if it wasn't so goddamned acidic.

Claude fades away within an instant, leaving no trace or evidence, as if he was never there to begin with – a disturbed mirage - and he's left with nothing but emptiness.

Emptiness, and an ache so deep that it cuts right into his soul.

He wants to scream, but can't even manage a whisper.

Everything around him is dead, and he wishes he was, too.

He awakes to cold, suffocating silence.

And to the beating of his heart.

It sounds like the echo of distant gunfire.

He keeps still, his gaze scanning the room systematically, lingering on shadows that loom larger than usual.

No ghosts to be found.

It takes him a few more moments to remember to breathe.

He's covered in sweat, the sheets clinging to his skin with irritating determination.

Beside him, Sandra's even, quiet breathing provides a steady anchor of equilibrium, reuniting him with a sense of reality that feels long lost.

He glances at the digital clock – twenty minutes past three.

Twenty-one.

Twenty-two.

He sits up, making sure to keep the silence uninterrupted. He's had more than enough practice in the field.

If he could somehow obliterate sleep from his schedule entirely, he would do it without a moment's hesitation.

Though, to be perfectly honest, he's well on his way there as it is.

He heads to the bathroom, stopping to check on Claire and Lyle on his way – it's a well-practiced routine, a nightly patrol of sorts.

He leans over the sink, ignoring the slight shake in his hands, and trying to find the physical probability of the fact that his skin is burning even though he still feels half-frozen on the inside.

He splashes water over his face, painfully heightened sensations slowly receding into faint, familiar numbness.

Leaning forward, he presses his forehead against the mirror. His breath lands on the reflective surface, thick and warm, distorting the image into a pale, mocking blur.

Sometimes he wonders whether that's his real reflection.

And sometimes he thinks it'd be better not have one at all.

He never did ask Claude – is it easier to hide from yourself when you're invisible?

Not that it matters much.

Lately, he's been spending far too much being a lab rat roaming through endlessly hypothetical labyrinths. Maybe blindness is easier.

So he stops _thinking_. Simply feels the cool glass against his skin, finding the little comfort he can in its simple, grounding effect.

Allows time to pass and slowly melt around the edges, until he nearly manages to forget where he is. Who he is.

What he's done.

Then focus returns, not quite grounded, hovering at the edge of his consciousness. He meets his eyes in the mirror; mouths the words he'll never say, and watches his muffled reflection do the same.

It's a strange breed of ritual, but a necessary one. Necessary for what purpose, he couldn't say. That's what makes it a _ritual_.

He's done with it for tonight.

He closes his eyes -

And freezes when, for a split second, he can feel breathing on the back of his neck.

But it's only a stray breeze.

Two years, three months, seventeen days.

He's never going away.

* * *

The shots are still ringing in his ears two days later. 

He hasn't slept since… since _then_.

Sandra is in the kitchen, preparing dinner, but his senses are clogged, and all he can smell is the air on that bridge. The car fumes. And the… less pleasant scents.

He wasn't able to muster up any appetite yesterday, and he doubts today will be any different.

But he'll feign normality. A rough week at work. Sandra will understand.

She always does.

He leans back into the couch as the television yammers on mindlessly, flipping through channels until he lands on something entirely neutral.

Jeopardy.

That should work. Enough to keep his mind awake, as well as make sure all other aspects stay in deep hibernation. He watches the show for a while; knows most of the answers, as usual.

Then comes a category he isn't so certain about.

The Greater Good, for five hundred.

Alex Trebek turns an intent look into the camera.

"How _far_ would you go?"

He patiently awaits the answer, but nobody seems keen on providing it. It takes him several moments to realize the question is directed to _him_.

What the –

"I'll take Greatest Bastards of the Twentieth Century for two hundred."

The voice is casual, relaxed even - but his blood instantly turns cold, rendering him motionless. When he finally wills himself into action, he turns to see Claude seated – almost _sprawled_ - on the couch next to him, watching him with a vaguely interested expression.

This isn't possible. It can't be. He _saw_ -

Trying to think rationally through a rising tide of panic, he assesses his chances of reaching the concealed gun without being intercepted.

Marginal at best.

He goes for his cell phone instead, but something stops him from dialing – a crawling realization, slowly catching up to him.

Claude snorts.

"Who ya gonna call?"

"You can't –" he blindly stumbles on words – on erratically conceived thoughts and wild emotions, "can't be-" his miserable attempts at coherency are cut short as his gaze drifts downwards - and he sees the wounds.

A stark wave of nausea washes over him, and he has to grasp at the edges of the couch to keep steady.

"What's the matter? Never heard of ghosts?" Claude scoffs. "Figures. You've got more than a few gaps in your education. Didn't your mum ever tell you shootin' your friends isn't _nice_?"

He can't find the concentration to answer. God, he can barely find the concentration to _breathe_.

Claude isn't particularly moved by his lack of response. In fact, he seems downright apathetic. "So," Claude leans in to whisper in his ear, and he would draw back, if only he could _move_.

"How's Claire?"

He jolts into wakefulness, feeling like he's just had a heart attack.

Oh God - Claire.

What if something _happened_ to her – what if – he doesn't dare complete that thought, searching for her frantically throughout the house, only to finally find her up in her room, staging her very own soap opera, featuring a teddy-bear exclusive cast.

She gives him her radiant smile, and after a few moments of stillness, he manages to slowly smile back.

Two days.

He's rattled, that's all.

Just rattled.

It will all go away after a good night's sleep.

* * *

One truly reliable aspect of the Company is that no matter how many years of your life you've dedicated to it or how high-level an operative you are - paperwork is still inescapable. 

He's going through a seemingly endless pile of it when there's a shimmer on his desk and Claude materializes without further warning.

He jumps up from the chair, in a twisted caricature of their first encounter.

Even Claude's amusement at his reaction seems darker; _perverse_, somehow.

"Boo," he declares nonchalantly. "Friendly Company ghost at your service."

"You're not a ghost."

"Oh, I'm not then? Says who?"

"Ghosts don't exist," he stresses, clinging to a dying sense of rationality.

"And invisible men do," Claude retorts. "Though who knows? Might be an extinct race now, thanks to _you_."

He isn't willing to play his game. Doesn't have to _justify_ himself.

"It was your own fault."

"Right. I shot myself three times. Then I threw myself off a bridge for good measure. Creative suicide method, I'd say. Bet I even made a few acrobatic flips while I was at it."

"You knew the rules."

Claude's expression twists onto itself, instantly turning cruel and mocking.

"Oh sure, the _rules_. You love your precious rules, don't you Bennet?" He reaches over, gripping his chin. "Makes it so much easier when you don't have to think for yourself."

He swallows – an unfortunate reflex – unable to look away. His face is burning, and he wants to move, but Claude holds him in place – not so much by physical force as by sheer will.

"Don't worry. Thinking's overrated. After all, why think when you can blindly follow orders?"

There's a knock on the door and Claude vanishes.

Thompson comes in a moment later, not waiting for an invitation, and approaches him with an air of synthetic affability.

"You alright, Bennet? You look _distressed_."

He manages to come up with an unconvincing nod – a verbal answer feels too far out of reach - and Thompson proceeds to place a hand on his shoulder; a shiver passes through him, though he isn't quite sure why.

"You should take a vacation; take Sandra and the kids somewhere, have yourselves some quality time. I can see there's a lot of," he pauses, a smile creeping up onto his features, "_invisible weight_ on your shoulders."

Right then, he _hates_ Thompson.

"I'll do that," he replies evenly, and utilizes all of his self-control not to erase the complacent smirk from his superior's face.

Three months, thirteen days.

He's beginning to suspect post-traumatic stress.

Claude, he's sure, would have seen the irony in it.

He doesn't.

* * *

"Missed me?" 

Claude's feral grin is the only source of light in the shadowed motel room, lending him a distinctly Cheshire ambience.

"Not particularly," he replies, and almost believes his own lie.

"You're going to hurt my feelings, rookie," Claude warns, balancing on a razor edge between playful and dangerous. "Believe me - you don't want to do that."

In an unnervingly feline movement, Claude moves on top of him – edges in so close that their lips are nearly touching. His skin stings and prickles, sweat building fast, and he traps his breath, trying to block out unwanted sensations.

Claude smiles; licks his lips, _slowly_, and what begins as a fiery chill going throughout his body settles deep in his groin.

"Poof."

And he's alone.

His partner – the one who _isn't_ a dead bastard - is in a separate room. They don't share those. They share other things - trust, for one. Even understanding, on some level. But they're not friends. They never will be.

They're exactly what partners _should_ be. Nothing less, nothing more.

It's better that way. Less room for complications; for dangerous attachments.

_Missed me? _

Goddamn it.

He sinks his head into the pillow, the buzzing of mosquitoes providing a sour melody to an inhumanely hot night.

Without much intent, he slides his hand into his boxers; settles into a steady rhythm - his breathing soon growing sharp and ragged, body aching for a release his mind can't offer.

He tries to think nothing at all, and ends up thinking all the wrong things.

One year, one month, eleven days.

He comes breathlessly, shelving the scorching brand of self-loathing as soon as it surfaces.

Gets up. Takes a cold shower.

And manages to catch an hour of mercifully dreamless sleep.

* * *

Some nights it's just a repeat. 

Like watching an old tape.

Filled with scratches and bruises, all black and white; no emotion behind it, no hidden meaning.

Just repetition of fact. A silent memento.

All hollowed out.

He doesn't know whether he prefers the nights when he feels _everything_ –

- or the nights when he feels nothing at all.

* * *

"You're a sick son of a bitch, you know that?" 

"_Me_? I'm not the one dreamin' about being jacked off by a dead bloke."

He gets in Claude's face, hands clenching into fists. Claude doesn't move, just watches him, brow drawn in mocking curiosity. "What's the matter? Sandra doesn't quite cut it anymore? You need a bit of corpse action on the side? Says a lot about your love life, rookie."

His vision becomes veiled by rage, and he slams Claude into the wall. "Don't you _dare_ bring her into this."

Claude's gaze slides down and back up, with detached nonchalance.

"You're being _difficult_, mate."

Difficult. God, he has every right to be _difficult_.

He's had _enough_. This is stillhis mind, no matter how loose its grip on reality is; he should have some degree of control over it.

He lets go. Takes a swing -

And hits air.

Breathe –_ breathe_.

He's in a cell – a Company cell – and Claude's behind the glass, shrouded in a neutral frown.

"Doesn't work like that," he says. "Think you need a time-out."

He disappears -

And the lights go out.

"No," he mutters numbly. "Claude. _Claude!_"

His eyes fail to adjust to the darkness – it's thicker, somehow, like black fog.

His breathing begins to speed up –

No, this is ridiculous. Juvenile.

He's hardly the appropriate age to be afraid of the dark.

And yet he can do nothing to stop the building dread, the cold sweat and the frantic heartbeat –

He has no way out.

He bangs on the glass, trying to break through, to get a response – _anything_.

Nothing.

He screams and screams and gets nothing but deafening, silent echo in reply.

Until he can't scream anymore, vocal chords scratched, knuckles bleeding - everything rubbed raw.

He sinks to his knees, shaking, surviving from breath to breath, trapped in blind, suffocating panic.

A few lifetimes pass.

In between, he faintly wonders -

Is it really forever or just endlessly stretched out slow motion?

Then there's a hand on his shoulder, and it all… _stops_.

He focuses on the touch, because it's the only thing there is.

"Ready to be a good boy now?"

It takes him a while to even understand the question. He nods, weakly and incoherently.

Claude crouches next to him. "Stop bein' such a big baby." He tilts his head towards the door. "It isn't even locked."

He wakes up feeling like he's just died several times over.

Two years, three months –

Eighteen days.

Well, if he's going to have a nervous breakdown, he's better off having it in his sleep.

And he manages to find a single comfort point to cling to.

It can't get any worse.

* * *

"Why are you doing this?" 

He's tired, so _tired_. The question is pointless, he knows that much, and he sounds pitiful at best - but maintaining his dignity isn't a top priority at the moment.

"_I'm_ not doing anything. You are."

"I am," as he strikes a balance between numb and deadpan.

"Think you've got issues, friend."

"You're one to talk."

"_My_ only issue, Bennet, is you."

He shakes his head. That's just…

"What is this? Revenge?"

"Revenge?" Claude's voice unsubtly implies that the very idea is absurd. "Please, you really think badgerin' you is my idea of _revenge_? Give me some credit, rookie - I'm far more inventive than that. Like I said – it's your issues. I'm not here by _choice_."

"Then why _are_ you here?"

"Shinin' beacon of intelligence, you are. You never asked me to _leave_."

He wants to the point out the ridiculousness of the statement, but stops when he realizes that… Claude's _right_.

Why_ didn't_ he ask him?

"You want me to go, just say so - and I'll disappear forever," Claude continues. "No more nightmares. You can go back to dreamin' about the amazing wonders of paperwork for all I care. That what you want?"

He closes his eyes – not to think, but to bring himself to accept an answer that's already there.

"No."

It's a sad indicator of how far his life has deteriorated, when the companionship of a sadistic ghost is something he feels a desperate need to cling to.

Because - it's better than nothing at all.

"Think of it this way - maybe I'm not trying to drive you crazy." Claude orchestrates a suspenseful pause, offering him a wild grin. "Maybe I'm the only thing keepin' you sane."

Claude vanishes before he can fully comprehend just how chilling he finds that possibility to be.

So yes, maybe he does have… _issues_. But he's less than enthusiastic about the prospect of involving the Company's psych department.

Two years, ten months, twenty five days.

There are many ways one can retire from Primatech.

Some days…

Some days, he thinks Claude got the easy way out.

* * *

Memory is a tricky thing. 

All too human – easily warped by time and faulty perception.

By wishful thinking.

Details fade away and scenes blur into incoherence until they no longer hold any significance – or until they're wiped out entirely from existence.

His own memory is less than photographic.

But here… _here_ he remembers everything with absolute clarity.

The wind is blowing at his back, providing the mellow presence of nature, unnerving in its serenity.

It's quiet here. Always has been. Idyllic, even.

This place should be anything but.

But maybe it's the contradiction, the contrast that highlights the pain.

He doesn't have a grave to visit. This is the next best thing.

He's encountered a great number of unusual phenomena in his lifetime, but a guide to exorcism isn't one of them.

He passes his hand over the railing. It feels like nothing in particular. Just cool metal.

All he has is the memory. He owes Claude that much.

He remembers the first shot; the initial shock - because evenhe couldn't bring himself to believe he _could_ do it… until he did.

He remembers the second: focused and angry, but only artificially so.

He remembers the rest coming in a flurry, a conditioned auto-pilot; not allowing himself to stop to think, because if he did...

It doesn't matter.

He remembers Claude disappearing.

Three years.

An anniversary, of sorts.

He stays there for half an hour longer before driving back.

On his way home, he convinces himself that the mist in his eyes is due to the quantity of dust in the air.

There are days when he _hates_ Texas.

* * *

"So I'm only worth two hundred?" 

"Hmm?" Claude intones, expression colored in a light shade of disinterest.

"On the Greatest Bastards scale."

"Well, I figure Hitler should have the honor of going first, genocide and all. Thompson is a higher-rankin' bastard, too."

"Thanks. I appreciate that."

"Don't mention it."

Jeopardy is playing - now quite possibly his least favorite show of all time. He glances back at Claude, who is busy experimenting with the visibility levels of his fingers.

Apparently, even ghosts get bored.

"You're not going away," he states. "If we're stuck with each other, I figure we at least should do our best to get along."

"Get along," Claude repeats incredulously. "You bloody _shot_ me, mate. Where exactly in your twisted little worldview does 'get along' come into the picture?"

"You don't have a choice," he replies simply.

Claude responds with an uncharacteristically long stretch of silence.

"Got a point there," he admits finally. "Maybe you're worth more than two hundred after all."

He smiles as he shifts his attention back to the television. He's finally achieved something.

Not inner peace, but maybe... inner ceasefire.

Three years, five months, twenty days.

Claude leaves, but the question remains.

_'How Far Would You Go?'_

* * *

Some nights they just… talk. 

About anything. Global news. The latest assignment. Claire. The philosophical significance of cheese.

Like old times, almost.

And the strangest thing is that it feels, for lack of a better definition, normal.

Well, the _normality_ of it all is debatable, but he's long since come to realize that normality is nothing but a cover. A carefully constructed illusion.

Even illusions have their uses.

They help to conceal lies, and better yet, disguise truths.

And the truth isn't something he's willing to face just yet.

* * *

"Nice glasses." 

Somehow, he doubts Claude means that as a sincere compliment.

"Claire picked them."

"Really. Must've pissed her off pretty badly, then."

"She knows what she's doing."

"Well, I suppose they fit_ you_."

He sighs. "Thanks."

"Incidentally, how _is_ Claire?"

"_Incidentally_, she's fine."

"Not special in any sort of way?"

She's his little girl. Of course she's _special_. But obviously that's not what Claude's asking.

"She's _normal_."

"For now."

He doesn't have a retort to that, so he looks away, hoping Claude will take the hint; knowing, of course, that he won't.

"You love 'er?"

He hates that question.

Because yes, he _does_ love her. More than anything.

But he can't tell him that.

So Claude disappears without getting his answer.

Lifting his head from the plane seat cushion, he realizes the Haitian has been gazing at him intently for quite a while.

Four years, seven months and twelve days.

For a moment, he's struck with the absurd notion that the young man can see straight into his soul.

If that's the case, then he feels mildly sorry for him.

It can't be a pretty sight.

* * *

"Are you really dead?" 

"How do you expect me to answer that? Bit of a flaw in your logic there."

"I'd rather not have my logic criticized by a _ghost_."

If that's indeed what he is.

"Now you're just being a prejudiced bastard. Besides – thought you didn't believe in ghosts."

"This is going to get very circular very quickly, Claude."

He wonders what else Claude could be, if not a ghost. It's not as if he's lacking in possible explanations. An illusion, a dream manipulation – all viable answers in his line of work.

"Having fun weavin' your conspiracy theories?"

"I take it you can read my mind now?"

"I know you, mate," Claude counters. "Never been a big believer in Occam's Razor, have you?"

"Occam's Razor doesn't apply to ghosts."

"There you go again - I'm startin' to think you've got something against ghost-kind. Besides, what difference does me bein' dead or not make?"

"_All_ the difference."

"Doesn't change what you did."

No, it doesn't.

"Nothing can change that."

"Then why do you even care?"

Five years, four months, eighteen days.

And he's stuck with Schrödinger's Invisible Man.

* * *

Work accidents happen rather frequently at the Primatech Paper Company; lethal more often than not. Even with the benefit of knowledge and experience, all it takes is one misstep, one little mistake, and the world turns into a mask of agony, rapidly fading away. 

He lies on the ground – the obligatory ironic 'I've fallen and I can't get up' paying his mind a brief visit.

And of course, that's when Claude decides to show up.

"Are you here to escort me to Hell?"

"Bein' a bit melodramatic, don't you think? Do I _look_ like a bloody spirit guide to you?"

No, he supposes he doesn't; certainly lacks the air of wisdom and enlightenment about him. But things are rarely what they appear, these days.

Claude kneels beside him, giving him a thorough look-over.

"You're not goin' to die."

He doesn't mean to be skeptical, but… it sure _feels_ like he is.

"How do you know?"

"Inside information."

Throughout the pain, he still manages a rough bark of laughter. "Bullshit."

Probably not the most eloquent and well-mannered of replies, but there's not much sense in being polite, when dying.

He could easily be imagining it, but Claude actually looks pensive – maybe even _concerned_. "Just trying to be optimistic here."

"If _you're_ trying to be optimistic, I must really be in trouble."

Claude's expression turns downright pained. "You can't _die_, you stupid bastard. Claire needs you."

"I know."

"So you're not dyin'," Claude states, which naturally makes it a fact.

But he's right. He _can't _die. Not now.

"Okay."

Five years, nine months, twenty three days.

He wakes up in the infirmary – in a world of pain, but in one piece.

Maybe Claude really does have inside information.

Or, more likely, he just got very lucky.

* * *

"Highly Irritating Ghosts for two hundred." 

"Worth only two hundred, am I?"

"Well, there's Casper. And Patrick Swayze. They're hard to top," he spares Claude a brief glance before turning back to watch the show. "I'd say you're right about on par with Beetlejuice."

"I should punch you for that."

"Good luck with that," he offers mildly.

Claude doesn't punch him, and instead they spend a few minutes in relative silence, warmed by the surreal ambience the television provides.

"How's Claire?"

That question again. It used to bother him – drive him insane, in fact. But he can't run from it anymore.

"She made the cheerleading squad," he pauses for a breath. "And she can regenerate."

There's a distinct lack of noise from Claude's end, but his recovery is remarkably quick. "Spontaneous regeneration, huh? Sounds perfectly normal to-"

"Claude."

He doesn't have the energy for games.

"So. You going to turn her in?" Claude asks, aggravatingly conversational.

He only now realizes how ridiculously easy the answer is.

"No."

"Breakin' precious Company policies. Never thought I'd live to see the day."

"Oh, I don't know," he offers him a weary smile. "I think we broke quite a few back in the day."

Claude, however, remains entirely serious, and he can't help but be unnerved by that.

"This is the line, pup," he says. "Point of no return an' all. Means you don't get to come back from this."

He gives a faint nod in return. His heart beating too rapidly, too loudly – but his voice remains cool and controlled.

"I'll manage."

He doesn't have any choice in the matter.

Six years, seven months, twenty one days.

The question stretches across the television screen, silent and everlasting.

'How Far Would You Go?'

But it's not about the greater good anymore. He's forgotten what the greater good is. Or maybe he's just stopped caring.

And he knows the answer now.

He'll go as far as it takes.

* * *

It's been a busy day. 

Between the… _crisis situation_ earlier and the impending apocalypse, it takes a while for the news to fully sink in.

Claude's alive.

The son of a _bitch_.

He doesn't know what he's supposed to feel. What he's supposed to do.

Whether he should laugh or cry - or do both at the same time.

But he does none of that. He doesn't have the luxury.

His world is falling apart around him, and not in a particularly subtle fashion, at that.

So he does what he always does. He plays it business as usual; lets a combination of numbness and kinetic energy keep him going.

He tells himself he's handling it. That everything is under control.

Claude was right. He really is a terrible liar.

* * *

"You're not dead." 

He doesn't know if it's an accusation, an expression of relief, or a simple statement of fact.

The _impostor_ Claude simply shrugs, not particularly moved by the revelation.

"Oh, and I suppose I should _apologize_ for that, should I?"

He shakes his head, finding it entirely irrelevant.

"Why are you still here? You can't be _that_ bitter."

"I wouldn't underestimate just how _bitter_ I can be, Bennet."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

And, impostor or not, he _needs_ to know something.

"Take off your shirt."

"_What?_"

This is the first time he's gotten a shocked reaction out of him. A miniature victory, but one he cherished nonetheless. "Take off your shirt," he repeats calmly.

"You're a pushy bastard, you know that?"

"I know."

Claude complies, pulling his shirt off to reveal his bare chest.

The scars are ugly, grotesque, _accusing_ –

But they're not open wounds.

Not anymore.

He nods in acknowledgment, stepping away. "You were never real."

"Never said I was."

Which means he has _always_ been in control.

"Is this it?" he asks. "Are you leaving?"

"Not yet."

"Why not?"

"Got some unfinished business, you and I."

Seven years, one month, twenty eight days.

He takes a step forward and kisses Claude.

"The hell was _that_?"

"Unfinished business."

"Wouldn't try pullin' it on the _real_ me, mate."

He doesn't know what the end will be –

But he knows it's close.

* * *

He's finally figured it out. 

The ritual, the exorcism.

The missing piece.

The weather is practically the same as it was back then, conforming to the symbolism fluidly, without argument.

He remembers the exact spot.

He's hardly sold on the idea of destiny, doubts he ever will be, but this feels like… it's _meant_ to be.

It doesn't make it any easier.

Doesn't make the pain any less shocking, when the bullet goes through him.

_This is goodbye. _

Claire's crying, and he wants to reach out – to hold her and tell her that it will be all right, that they will see each other soon – but he can't bring himself to lie to her, not anymore, not after everything, and… he can barely even hear her now.

Only an echo.

The world is muting, covering in a blanket of gray and white, smoothing over the pain. Everything growing distant.

The hand is nearing his forehead; he's always wondered what it would feel like, and now he's about to find out.

He won't remember it, of course.

Sad, that people are only the sum of their memories. That everything comes down to fragmented moments, held together by the unsteady glue of time.

And this moment is about to run out.

The world is simple again, drawn in black and white.

He's in the car, riding shotgun. The radio is playing Creedence, and life is about as good as it gets.

_Someone told me long ago  
There's a calm before the storm _

_I know _

_It's been comin' for some time _

Claude taps his finger against the steering wheel to the rhythm of the song, giving him a sideways glance. They don't speak, but there's no strain, no hidden accusations – just quiet companionship.

But much as he enjoys the comfortable silence, they need to get down to business.

"You need help," he starts, "don't you?"

"This isn't about me."

He isn't too sure about that.

But he decides against pressing the point further, because clearly, the Claude in his head is every bit as stubborn a bastard as the real one.

Then again, he knows a thing or two about stubborn bastards.

"You were right."

Claude turns, watching him keenly for a long moment, before slapping him upside the head.

He stifles the instinctive '_Ow_' that longs to accompany the gesture. The last time he'd been exposed to this brand of treatment was when he was a _rookie_, and he wasn't terribly fond of it back then, either.

"What was that for?"

"For the seven bloody years it took for it to get through your thick skull."

"Seven years, two months and one day," he corrects. Admittedly, this doesn't help his case much, but it serves to keep the protocol clean.

Claude snorts. "Still an anal-retentive bastard."

"You didn't expect me to change _that_ much, did you?"

"Never wanted you to _change_. Just grow a brain, a heart and a set of balls."

He resists rolling his eyes at that, instead glancing at the road to make sure that it is not, in fact, made of anything resembling yellow brick.

"I take it you're trying to find your way back home, then?"

"What?"

"Well, since I occupy most of the other roles, it only makes sense for you to be the Dorothy in this analogy, doesn't it?" he rationalizes.

Claude shakes his head in dismay. "You're readin' too much into it."

"Of course I am."

Claude tactically ignores him, and he decides a subject-switch is in order.

"What were you doing?" He thinks he knows the answer to that, but he needs to hear it. "All this time?"

"Keeping you company, you bloody idiot. Figured you could use somebody to talk to."

Occam's Razor. Or at least Claude's idea of it.

"Thank you."

Claude just shakes his head, snorting softly.

He watches the view, as it drifts at an unhurried pace outside the car window.

He turns back to Claude. "What do I do?"

"You're a big boy, Bennet. Figure it out."

Well, he probably shouldn't have expected a more enlightening answer.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he recalls having a plan of some sort, but it's all so faded now, and it seems like the answer to all question life has thrown at him lately, the only answer he has left is… _I don't know. _

And he's always… intensely disliked that particular answer.

Claude places a hand on his thigh, apparently noticing his distress.

"Try landin' on your feet. Or at least on all fours. And keep Claire safe. That's all you need to do."

He nods. He'll do that, or die trying.

But that's not his only obligation.

"I'll find you."

"That a threat?"

"A promise."

"Good luck," Claude offers, and sounds almost like he means it. "Don't think my corporeal counterpart will be quite as friendly and charmin' as I've been."

"Well, that's reassuring."

"I aim to please, friend."

They drive for what could be seconds, days or years.

He doesn't want it to end.

_I want to know, have you ever seen the rain  
I want to know, have you ever seen the rain  
Comin' down on a sunny day? _

But the song ends, and the car stops.

They get out, walk to the spot. He gets on his knees – it's less messy, more practical that way.

It feels like he's always been here, waiting for this. He has no excuses left; nor the will to find any.

The gun digs into his forehead, cool and steady. There's something almost friendly about it.

"Is this the end?"

"Barely the beginning, mate."

There's only one loose end left.

"I'm sorry."

This isn't the real thing, but this is as close as he can get. He means it, and that's all there is to it.

"Bit too late for that."

Claude's mouth quirks into a half-smile.

"But it's a start."

He leans into it, accepting the cold comfort of the lethal metal. It's only logical, that if the problem lies in the barrel of a gun, then the solution would be found there as well.

He takes a deep breath, drawing it all in; manages an approximation of a smile.

This is goodbye.

He hears the gun go off – the sound so familiar and so _close_.

Feels the bullet penetrating his skin, crushing through his skull, going _deeper_ –

Seven years, two months, one day.

And, if only for just that one moment –

He's free.


End file.
